


Orion

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Chastity Device, Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, First Kiss, Frottage, M/M, Omega Sam, Self-Hatred, mild dubcon due to heat pheromones/instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are supposed to stay pure. (Sam is 17. Dean is 21.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orion

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [silver9mm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm) for beta-services on this.

Dad carries it with himself at all times. He bought it when you started hitting puberty at age 13 and you've been wearing it every couple of months since then. You still haven't come to peace with it; it is just as awkward and terrible as it had been on the very first day. So when Dad pulls you aside with that one particular look after sending Dean outside to get the car ready, your skin crawls without the need to see it. Still, he presses it into your hands.

"Dad-" you start.

"We'll wait outside."

Your grip hardens around the stiff, heavy material as you swallow what is left of your pride and stomp into the tiny bathroom. Door slamming included, of course. Your pants and underwear are being shoved down your thighs - and then slip down to the ground on their own behalf. They're Dean's old ones and even though they're threatening to become too short soon, they are way too wide for your slim hips. Your unnerved groan echoes through the small space that is your private four walls for the few moments of this. The device closes and even though your hips are so small, they still grew enough in these four years for the material to dig into your skin. Not much more and it will hurt to wear it; but, shit. These things are expensive as fuck. You know Dad won't replace it before it becomes completely impossible to wear.

The tiny key is the worst, somehow. Such a miniscule thing and yet it means so much. Oh, the irony. You rotate it clockwise until you hear the click, then pull it out and hide it in the folds of your palm. Pants back up, an angry stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror, and you're on your way.

Dad's outstretched hand is waiting from where he already is seated shotgun. You hand the key over without a word and handle the backseat door with less affection than your brother can tolerate. He yells at you, but fuck him, seriously. Your backpack slams down next to you and you stare out of the window, arms crossed in front of your chest. You know your face is red, know that Dean is staring you down over his seat before he gets it - rolls his eyes, groans. " _That_ time of the month, huh."

"Fuck you."

" _Boys_."

The three of you drive and drive. You try not to think of anything, try to make up a game you can play with the passing surroundings. A stick figure, jumping over obstacles. You trace its invisible shape with your eyes as it moves. You ignore the friction of the belt.

For an alpha, Dad has a terrific sense of smell. He used to be able to tell that you would go into heat before yourself. But you grew up and you're starting to get a feeling for it. About every three months; usually during the last quarter of the moon. Even though it's not really due yet, your body starts responding to the unwanted stimulation. Of course it does. You feel how slick is starting to build up and you know your brother and father can smell it. Cheek pressed harder against the window, you try to not think of anything.

They drop you off in front of your school. The days are getting shorter and the leaves are turning into the colors of autumn. Mild air blows through your too-long hair and you don't wave your family goodbye because you are the black sheep anyway. Some students turn their heads when you pass them. They are not used to this kind of smell in a public place. Most omegas are kept at home when their heat hits, tucked away and safe and nice. But you are not one of these omegas. Your pack has no capacities for treating you special; you don't need safety. There's a knife in your boot, training in your muscles and a chastity belt strapped over your hole. Nobody can get you. Nobody.

They tried and still do try, so you snarl and fight them off while your body begs you to let them, oh please just let them have you. You are young and fertile; maybe not beautiful, but healthy. The first pregnancy would let your hips drift wide, you are sure of it, and you'd have easy deliveries. You try not to think about babies or anything related to all this though, because that is not the life that is destined for you.

Dad says defloration triggers intense changes in an omega, and medicine agrees. Omegas get calmer, softer. Their body reaches its full potential to give birth, to be a good mother. Dad says hunters are not made to have children, that it won't end good - that the Winchester mission is to save people, not to settle down and play family.

So you're wearing a belt that keeps you pure, that keeps you in a state that will let you fight and be strong like you need to in order to survive. So you'll never have sex, never mate, never have babies, and as soon as you're unable to squeeze yourself into this damn belt, you'll get a bigger one. There is no way around this.

Some of your classmates give you disgusted or irritated looks which you taught yourself to ignore. Halfway through the day, you have to come to terms with the fact that Dad was right. In the bathroom, you wipe excess slick from where it leaks around the belt. Your nipples hurt and you give them a tough squeeze to work out the tingling itch in them. The bathroom is dirty and restrictive. You feel disgusted, out of place. When you wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, it comes away wet. Fucking hormones. You hate everything.

PE. You hate everything even more. "I can't participate today," you mutter to the tips of your sneakers. The teacher understands, of course he does, and you are allowed to sit against the wall while the others are doing their thing. More or less.

"Can someone get rid of that bitch-stink, man?! I can't even walk straight like this!"

"Don't blame the O on _that_ , jackass!"

"Boys, come on, it's not Sam's fault. You're not kids anymore, so let's get a hold of ourselves, shall we."

You stare at the ground, wrap your arms tighter around your knees. Absent scratches on a rip in the denim of your jeans distract you from the itch of the renewed sticky sensation underneath your boxer shorts. Not your fault. Not your fault. No, it isn't. But it doesn't matter anyway.

When class is over, you wait. And you wait. And you wait some more. After an hour, you start walking, hands in pockets, wet eyes hidden behind your bangs. What would take twenty minutes by car takes you one and a half hours by foot. The Impala rests in front of your hideout and you have never wanted to carve profanities deep into its painting as hard as you do right now.

"Oh, shit." Dean cranes his neck the instant you enter. You don't even look up, just slam the door closed behind you as you throw your backpack across the room. "I- Was I- Shit, Sam, I forgot, shit."

Bathroom. All you want is the bathroom, a shower. You want a hot soup and a soft blanket and you want to fall asleep without ever waking up again. Slamming of door, quick handling of the lock. Dean got up from the sofa and dashed after you, but you ignore his pleas for forgiveness in front of the door. You kick the tiny wastebin and smash your fist into what you hope is a steady tile. It is, and it hurts, and that is good.

You soaked through both your underwear and jeans. Lines of slick coat your legs all the way down to your socks, and you pull everything from you. The belt remains and even though you know it's of no use, you lash out at it until one of your nails breaks. Fresh blood smells of iron and you sob over the pain, over the stink that is yours, all yours. Disgusting. Freak. Omega.

Everything washes off under the shower. The sting in your finger (hand) is a mere background sensation and eventually turns into a dull throb. You close your eyes as you stand underneath the stream of water. Breathe in, breathe out. Relax. The first day is always the hardest. It's gonna be over again soon. Three whole months until the next time. You can do it.

Your body stretches long and longer as if there was no end. Not normal for an omega to grow this tall, but then again, this is _you_. You examine yourself in front of the tiny mirror as good as you can. Even though it's your own fingers, they feel good on your skin. You ran out of warm water at some point but simply went with ice-cold; that's better against the fever-heat anyway. You like your skin, how tender it still is. Your neck is sensitive, so when you run your fingers down these stretched tendons, it makes your breath hitch a little. Your reflection looks back at you with big, wet eyes and with a pink shadow on its cheeks.

There's no hair on your body below your eyebrows because you are an omega. Your chest is flat just like your stomach is. You are thin, too thin; bony. Hipbones make your skin tent and not far below, you can trace the black straps of the belt. It runs around your hips like the elastic of your shorts do, but then becomes a wide string in the back that separates again under your nuts, runs up there until it connect with the waistband again. Like a reverse jockstrap. The lock sits in the front, half a hand's width underneath your navel, and it has the shape of a heart - because it's an omega-exclusive tool. Omegas get hearts and frills, pastel colors and soft fabric. Dad got the least effeminate version he could possibly find, and if you said you weren't grateful at all for this effort, you would be lying.

The thing is: You don't _want_ to be different. You would give everything to be just like your brother or your father - alpha, bam, settled, no complications. You would have popped your knot a few years back and would be using it as you pleased now, because fucking is good for alphas' instincts, and alphas' instincts are ideal for hunting. Aggression, determination, strength. Even as a beta you would be happy. Not much gain to what you are now, except that the whole heat-thing would not be your thing. Which, for you, is big. Gigantic. Unimaginable.

Your hand slips deeper down from the lock and wraps itself around your dick. Even though it's hard and leaking, it fits easily into your hand. It stopped growing after your first heat. Touching yourself here does not make much sense; even your nipples are more sensitive. It's a dull throb, like your split nail, but sweeter, fuller than pain. Hot in your palm, it's still useless, so you let it go again. Omegas masturbate differently...

... but defloration is defloration. There is a reason Dad is the one keeping the key. He doesn't trust you with your own hymen, and the worst is that this distrust is _substantiated_ \- you can't deny that you haven't thought about it at least once. (Going through with it. Ending it. Giving yourself up to someone or something, yourself. Didn't matter. Wouldn't matter.) During heat, omega-bodies don't produce feces, so you can keep the belt on for the entire duration. Dad made clear to you that if you give him the slightest idea of doing "something stupid", he'll have you wear it at _all_ times. If you needed to take a shit, you'd have to ask him for the key first. It's cruel and it's fucked up as hell, but it keeps you from doing "something stupid" alright.

So you don't fuck. So you don't get off. So you exist, and you survive, and you don't ask questions. You keep on keeping on, because life is cruel but that's the way it is, son; and we all have our package to carry. It has to be, or otherwise you'd be unable to be part of this pack. And you love your family, as fucked up as it is. It's still your family. So you swallow, and you dress, and you leave the bathroom.

It smells like chicken soup and your stomach growls. Dean reeks of guilt and parsley, so you give in to his ducked head and the offered bowl. "I'm really sorry, man," you hear over your meal, but you just nod.

"Where's Dad?"

"I drove him over to Jake's. He told me to pick him up tomorrow morning."

You huff, drop your spoon. Scowl. "Couldn't you have... couldn't you just have stayed with him...?"

He hesitates before the next spoonful but eventually shoves it into his mouth. "Told me to look after you," your brother mutters.

"I'm. Fuck. Dean, I'm... I'm seventeen already, for fuck's sake."

"I know."

"Why doesn't he..." You don't finish your sentence.

"... Try not to think about it."

Again but now in silence, you nod.

Everything feels different, _is_ different once you are in heat. Things taste different, smell different, feel different. Things that repulse you may suddenly become a craving and vice versa. You wrap yourself in a blanket and watch TV with your brother even though you hate him, even though he doesn't even want to watch the rom-com you chose (hormones). You don't actually hate him, of course, because how could you? But he's so mean. A real alpha, for all you know. Dragged along by his knot, proud, full of himself. He reeks of pussy half the week while you could scratch yourself bloody and still couldn't get yourself off. Everything is so easy for Dean. So you hate him. Kind of.

"Stop smelling me," you mutter as you push him off yet again. He has his arm draped around your shoulders and sneaks his face close to yours every now and then. You seem to smell good to him even though you guys are brothers. That's another thing you hate yourself for. Your and his genes are a great match. Your body wants to make babies with your brother.

Dad doesn't smell yours and his perfect chemistry and Dean seems to have decided to keep it a secret between the two of you. It's nothing you talk about with him and he never mentions it himself either. It's an inconvenient mistake of nature, and that's all. Dean only dares to get close to you when the two of you are alone and when you are in heat. So he uses more force the next time he tries to get a whiff of your neck, pins you in place, and it's not fucking fair. Your omega-instincts kick in despite your efforts to fight, and you become pliant, soft. Dean reeks of well-fucked alpha, like knowing alpha, like fertile alpha. He could be your mate. So your neck stretches for him.

"Dean," you warn.

He hums with his deep inhale, almost a growl, and you can smell how his arousal grows with your scent, _thanks_ _to_ your scent, _because of_ your scent. It makes you slicker in return, and you squirm away under him.

He follows, but you push him off with both hands. "Dude, stop! I said stop! I'm gonna leak all over the damn couch!"

Dean looks dumbstruck. Dilated pupils shine black in the flickering lights of the TV. "Then get a towel," he says as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. As if it was so easy.

"Fuck you," you hiss as you actually do what he suggested. While you walk, you become aware of how wet you are already. You wash yourself again in the tub but the towel hasn't even dried off all the water before the next wave of slick pulses through your channel. You groan, frustration heavy in your chest, tears in your eyes yet again because oh, why you, why you? You get new shorts and a towel. You have no clean sweatpants left.

Dean watches you spreading the towel. You draw your knees close to your chest once you are sitting again, and Dean wraps the blanket over the both of you. You bend your back and pull your shoulders high to hide your neck, so he smells under your arms, nuzzles your ear. "Stop," you croak. More slick. More tears.

"Just a little." His voice is like gravel. Your skin burns where he is touching you over the blanket, where his breath hits your skin. "Smells so good. Goddamn. Just another second, Sammy, just a second."

He cups himself over his sweatpants and you don't look. Your eyes are pointing straight ahead to the screen. His groan makes goosebumps pop on your skin. You can't blame him. Knothead stays knothead, brother or not. Dean isn't usually with you when you are in heat. No, he knows better and has better places to be. He can fuck elsewhere and get his fill with someone that isn't his little brother, who isn't you. He isn't used to how good you two smell together.

Your shorts are soaked through (have been a few seconds after you put them on). Your head is swimming and your eyes are tearing. Deep fever, far down your stomach, your back, itch spreading from asshole to vagina to cervix. You paid attention in sex ed and sometimes, when the heat cradles you with full force, you imagine you can feel your womb contract in these powerful cramps, its cries for a knot. You can definitely feel it when Dean runs a finger across the belly-strap of your belt.

"No!" You slap his hand away and he chuckles, does it again. You cringe and leak, leak, leak. "Fuck you! Fuck you!"

"Poor baby boy," he whispers, and that nickname and heat makes you sob and bolt off and away.

You lock yourself into the bathroom and cry buckets of hot tears into the hollows of your hands.

\---

You said you'd come out if he stopped with his bullshit. He said he really really needs to pee, so goddammit, Sam, open that door. You let him curse and push past you and you lie down on your bed, listen to him relieving himself. He didn't even close the door.

You're tired. You're horny out of your mind and you're tired, exhausted. Your eyes are swollen and your thighs are wet, so you curl yourself into a ball after you pulled the covers over your head. Tomorrow. It's gonna be better tomorrow. Try to sleep.

Dean doesn't come out after he flushed the toilet. The familiar sounds are like a lullaby to you - brushing of teeth, humming of a Zeppelin song. He tries the shower but hisses at the cold you left, and you snicker as he calls your name and a swearword along with it. Splashes of water; catlick.

Some silence. Then, you hear him groan.

It sounds full, secret. Your cheeks heat up because you know he is jerking off. You smell yourself in the confinement of the sheets and now not even _you_ can deny how sweet your scent is. Like overripe fruit; almost alcoholic. If you were younger, you now would run your hand over where the belt keeps you from reaching your own skin, where it is hot and needs to be touched, to be filled. But you grew up, and you know there is nothing to gain for you. You don't move.

Alpha-come smells strange. You have smelled it before, hell, smell it all the time; Dean is covered in his own more often than not. It's heady, almost bitter. You imagine it would cling to you for a long while. Dean hadn't washed his hands too well one time, and you got the worst stares that day until you realized why. Unmated, underage, smelling like your brother's come. Harsh sanitizer eventually got rid of it. You avoid your alpha-brother's touch whenever you can. It's better this way.

The air sizzles when Dean gets close and closer. In the end, you shudder when your brother climaxes. You can't hear him, but you know it happened. The scent is overwhelming, washing over you despite the distance between the two of you. You are on your way to soaking through the folded towel that you placed underneath your ass.

You hear him sigh, flushing the toilet again. He scratches himself, turns the light in the bathroom off, then he makes his way to the corner where the beds are; where you are. You pull the covers tighter around you. You regret not bringing the blanket.

Blood rushes in your ears, but you hear him stop in front of you, hear him mutter, "Can I sleep next to you?"

"No," you whisper, but he still nudges at your shoulder. "Dean." You are shaking. The fever rolls through your body.

He climbs over you and you immediately turn your back to him. You don't want to look at him and you don't want him to see that you are crying. You smell like sweat and slick, like guilt and despair and arousal. His scent fits so well. It makes you want to claw your skin off.

"Shit," he mutters. You try not to think of anything. "It won't go down."

"Boo-hoo," you mock.

"... Are you crying?"

"Fuck off."

"Baby boy-"

"Don't call me that."

"Baby." His voice feels like coming home, like safety. If you weren't brothers, you think you would die to have him as your mate. "Baby, hey. Sammy."

"Don't," you warn, but his hand is so so warm on your shoulder, your neck. He moves closer and kisses your hair, then sniffs at it, then groans. You shudder, hug your knees to your chest. The belt digs into your flesh. "Pervert," you call him.

"Says the soaking O."

"I can't help it."

"Neither can I."

"So fuck off then, please. Please, Dean, come on. Quit it, please."

He kisses behind your ear.

Your moan is unnaturally loud in the silent room.

You writhe without a destination, without a way out. Your body is on fire and you want to run and bite and fuck, and the cramps are intense enough for you to feel them when you press the heel of your palm down on your abdomen. He moves firmer up against your back and whispers your name. You haven't witnessed Dean in a rut yet and cry fresh tears. They run easy like water from a tap, like rain on glass. Your shirt is already sticking to your skin where Dean presses his chest against your back. You feel the amulet digging into your skin not much more than how you feel the pain in your split nail. You are panting and hear him do the same. Arms tug around you, try to unfold you. You cramp, remain a ball of limbs. He kisses the back of your neck and you jolt.

He gets an arm under you, hooks it under your armpit, holds your jaw. His free hand flies to your fluttering stomach, lower, nips at the lock. You whimper louder than he gasps. He has never touched you there before. Nobody has.

A harsh rut punches his hard-on against your still shorts-covered ass. The fabric slips thanks to your slick and he holds you down, gentle, only one hand on your jaw, your neck, and he kisses here again. You know he wants to bite, that his instincts tell him to. But he _kisses_ you. Soft, gentle. You crane your neck and you hate yourself.

He humps your ass and says, "Shit," keeps on kissing you, runs his hand over your belly, under your shirt, over your sweaty skin. Your hips push out without your consent. They want to present for their alpha, want to show off your hole. The strap of the belt is the only thing that keeps Dean's cock from slipping right inside you once your brother pulled your shorts down your ass.

Both of you groan, he deeper than you, naturally. You feel like you can't breathe, hear him curse. You are gonna smell like him, like his dick. He is marking you when he rubs off on you like this, and he will smell like your slick in return. Dad will know. Dad will know.

You should push Dean off, but he laps at your skin, at the salt and candy-heavy stickiness of your sweat. You moan again because you can't help it, because your hole works hard under the belt, tries to suck inside what shouldn't ever get inside, can't. Your brother's cock slips over your skin and it feels so thick, so slick and hot. You want it. It can have you. You'd let it. But it's not for you to decide this.

"This fucking- Fuck!" He growls, now pushes himself upright to paw at the belt with both hands. His nails are short but hard. They leave scratches in their wake as you try to scramble away or to your knees (you don't know which one). "Shit, what is- This is- How-"

The angle is of no importance at all; nothing can slip past the tight belt. Dean doesn't understand, the alpha in him doesn't understand, and you can't blame him. "I'm so sorry." You don't know why you say it.

"I knew that you- But... but this is... How-"

"I'm so so sorry. Please."

Attempts to tear it off don't work and you wail because the yanking breaks your skin. You hear him hiss all the while you push your ass out despite better knowledge, despite everything, because you are an omega and he is an alpha and he is behind you, so you _have_ _to_ present. His humping remains useless. "Shit, this- SHIT!"

Suddenly, you are very alone. He bolted off the bed, off of you. You instantly curl back in on yourself, wrap your too-long arms around your shaking body. Over your own sobbing, you hear him dress hastily, then grab the keys, then pull on his boots, then bang the door.

The Impala roars alive and away.

\---

Unfamiliar scent wakes you from feeble slumber. You blink and find your brother, feel his body heat, smell his come and some anonymous omega. He wraps his arms around you and you let him. The sheets are soaked with your sweat.

He brushes some sticky strands of hair out of your face, and you sigh. His cock pokes against your naked ass, but you don't say anything. This is your fault. "I'm so sorry," he tells you.

You shake your head.

"Yes. I am the worst. I'm sorry, Sammy."

He nuzzles your temple and you still don't hold him back. You tell yourself it's the heaviness of sleep but you know very well that you didn't catch too much of that while he was away. Then it's exhaustion, maybe. Yes. Exhaustion.

"Does it hurt to wear it? It's really tight."

You shake your head.

"You sure?"

"Yeah," you rasp. He pets your head. You chase the touch. He never asked you these kinds of things.

"God," he sighs. His hips roll. You feel cotton. He is wearing underwear again. "It won't stop. I thought it would be better if I... But it won't stop."

"It's okay." You don't know why you lie to your brother. You don't know. Your hips cant, and again, the angle is perfect. Your brother fucks the unyielding material of your belt.

You smell his precome, the other omega, your own slick. Everything mixes, and his breath is so good where it hits your bared neck. You feel the press of teeth - not the sharp edges, but the wide, white surfaces. He kisses your neck open-mouthed. He whispers your name.

Hands dive under your tee and feel over your belly. You don't touch here too often because it makes you wonder how it would feel to have it rounded to an enormous bulge. Those hands seem to wonder as well. They feel and press, ignore the lock, hold your belly. It's small, but it could hold life.

"We'd have... They'd be..." Ill. Disabled. Unlivable. You don't know why you even start to say it out loud. You feel horrible over how you are nevertheless clinging to the small percentage that promises healthy offspring between blood relatives.

Your brother groans into the crook of your neck. Maybe he knows of the percentage as well.

He tells you to turn around, so you roll on your back. He's on top of you in an instant, a good, heavy weight, and it makes your eyes wet again.

He kisses your mouth while he softly rocks your bodies together. You gasp into his mouth. It's your first kiss. You wonder if he knows.

His tongue feels good, and you hate yourself for it. You let it feel inside of your mouth and drive your own against it. He tastes like beer and alpha and someone you don't know, will never know. You have Dean here though, and he is kissing _you_ , marking _you_ , rutting against _you_.

When he withdraws his mouth, you chase it, but he pins you down with a soft hand. You sigh then, blink your eyes open just a little, just enough to find the familiar features of his face - the bump of his nose, the splatters of pigmentation reenacting the milky way on his skin. He has his eyes closed. His lashes are long and soft. You never thought about them like this.

Everything will be different tomorrow. You both will have to get rid of each other's scent. The antiseptic will sting like a bitch down there, but it's better not to think about that just yet.

You will wake up and realize what happened tonight, and your brother will do the same. You will stare at each other for a moment before looking away, before being overwhelmed by shame as sharp as razors down your gullets. You will scrub and claw and it will never be enough to rid yourselves of tonight, of the memories of touches that will be able to bring you back to these moments in the beat of a heart.

Dean will hook up with strangers just like before, and he will make fun of you and tease you until you lash out at him. He will treat you like the awkward freak you are. There won't be kisses. He won't touch you. He won't try to smell your neck while you watch movies together. Not for another three months.

You will look at your brother without holding your belly, without wonderings and questions. You will keep on living. You will grow to accept that biology is one thing while emotions are something entirely different.

You will look at your brother, and you won't see the smooth curl of his lashes, of his lips.

Freckles will be freckles. Number will be numbers.

After you will hand it over, the belt will return to you in a few months' time. You will put it on.


End file.
